A Classic German Drunken Encounter
by Wicked.Intentions
Summary: Nazi Zombies! Richtofen enjoys a small game of power play with one of his creations.


**Disclaimer:** _Call of Duty: World at War_, all characters and settings, and anything else you would recognize as pertaining to this video game, does not belong to me. The plot itself belongs to me. I do not intend to make any money off the writing of this fan fiction; it is merely for entertainment purposes.

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**Title:**_ A Classic German Drunken Encounter._

**Complete Story Summary:** Richtofen enjoys a small game of power play with one of his creations.

**Story Pairing(s):** Edward Richtofen/Nazi zombie.

**Story Rating:** T.

**Story Content:** Coarse language, masturbation, and gore.

**Notes:** I'm amazed at how this pairing claimed second place on my profile poll. Well, after a long wait, here it is.

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"I can't believe you!" Richtofen screeched, watching with hardened, piercing green eyes as the guilty party promptly released a beaker of liquid from his grasp in his surprise. The shatter of glass upon the unforgiving cement was friendlier than the snarl that molded the doctor's lips.

Tank scratched the back of his neck in that stupid way he did when he did not know what to do. "Uhm, sorry 'bout that…"

"Vhat zhe fuck do you zhink you are doing in my personal labs?"

"Oh, come on, how was I supposed to know?"

"I zhink zhe mere fact zhat you cannot read anyzhing in here vould enlighten you."

Tank sighed in frustration. He crossed his bulging arms together across his chest and stared Richtofen down. "I was lookin' for somethin'."

"Vhat could you possibly vant from my supplies?"

"Nikolai is out of vodka, and he's demandin' more."

"Vhy should I care?"

"He refuses to fight the freakbags without alcohol in his system. Just slightly concernin', right?" Tank snorted. He watched as Richtofen took long strides towards him, side-stepping the mess with distaste.

Richtofen opened up one of his padlocked cabinets after retrieving a key from the depths of his uniform. The dust that had collected from many years of disuse failed to completely hide the alcohol that lined the shelves, along with once-sterile bandages. "Is zhis sufficient?"

"Damn, Doc," Tank trailed off. His eyes darted from each smudged bottle in growing excitement. "I think this calls for a party."

Richtofen wrinkled his nose, turning away stubbornly. "Zhat is not necessary. Don't drink it all—we might need some."

Tank rolled his eyes before grabbing a few bottles from the shelves. Balancing them in one arm, he closed his unoccupied hand around the doctor's bony wrist. "Come on, Doc."

Even with as much hate and distrust as he could muster in his gaze, Richtofen was unable to sway the hardened soldier and found himself seated upon a rickety crate around a fire, an almost full bottle in his hands. He observed his teammates as they all laughed at nothing. Takeo, the normally quiet and distant one of the four, was rarely enjoying the moment, his eyes bright and wide and his cheeks flushed.

They were warm, inebriated, and in good humor.

Richtofen was sour, but he sipped at his own drink leisurely. How his stupid team could lounge around lazily and drunken while the undead breathed down their necks was beyond him. With enough alcohol, he grew more and more uncaring and empty-headed.

Sometime during the events, when the sun had set and the sky had darkened, Richtofen wandered off by the light of the dying fire the other men had passed out around, while leaving his own bottle behind. He wrapped his arms around himself to conserve what little heat remained, shivering at the chilly wind that swept past his exposed neck. His eyesight was blurry and his movements slurry and unsure, but he was able to find a somewhat comfortable place to sleep.

It was in that moment that the doctor found himself craving what he had denied himself for so long. He grumpily eyed his crotch, where his erection was pushing against painfully. "Vhere did you come from?" he muttered at it, torn between ignoring it and giving himself a cheap, quick release. Being around so many unshaven, dirty men did not present many opportunities for sexual arousal, but he was still a man—one with needs, at that.

With a sigh of reluctant decision, he undid his trousers. The relief of strain on it encouraged him, and he wrapped a hand around himself. The shock of cold flesh did nothing to deter, and almost instantly, he was bent over panting, working himself towards an unsatisfying finish.

Richtofen was cut off from his motions when a zombie abruptly tackled him to the ground, pinning him in place. It snarled and growled, gnashing its jaws at the doctor's terror-stricken face, the mere sounds that escaped its blood-logged throat sending a spine-tingling shock through his system. He kept his arms up to prevent the monster from closing its nasty teeth on his soft flesh. He hooked a leg around it and maneuvered his way to the top.

With this new position, Richtofen became light-headed at the rush of power that went through him. It was so easy to lose himself in killing these unjust creations of evil with a weapon in his hands, but rarely did he get the chance to enjoy overcoming his opponent with raw strength. It was overwhelming. His fingers curled around its limbs, and he grunted in the effort to keep it contained beneath him.

The zombie pushed at him, bucked, and flailed. It was mindless in its attempts to taste his juicy insides. Richtofen easily restrained it with his own body, his grin growing with every second. He released one of its arms so he can grope drunkenly around for his knife, which had been thrown from his belt when he had been surprised by the snarling beast below him.

With one quick lunge of his arm, he sank the Bowie knife into its crossed wrists and severing their ties to the rest of its body. He straddled its bucking thighs and smirked triumphantly down at the demonic face that roared furiously at him. He watched the gush of black blood that erupted from the wound he had created, his eyes slipping closed in ecstasy while it sprinkled his face with dark and foul-smelling flecks. His fingers swept through the resulting puddle and squeezed his erection with fervor.

A moan burst from the doctor's throat. He wished so desperately that this thing was alive. He preferred the warmth of living skin against his own and the crimson streaks of blood lubricating his arousal. It was easy to fantasize about sinking his erection deep into a living body that bled and hurt. He thrust eagerly into his clenched fist, his eyes wide open but seeing only what his mind created for him. His other gloved hand grasped and tore at rotted flesh and blood-soaked clothing without fully realizing what he was doing.

His fingers stroked and traced patterns up and down his erection, and he opened his mouth wide with his moans of pleasure. He vaguely felt himself grab at an unbeating heart, and the body below him struggled weakly for a few more seconds before falling limp and silent. The room, however, was filled with the doctor's screams. His eyes fluttered closed, and he collapsed tiredly on top of the destroyed and mangled area that was once a reanimated corpse. He took no mind, though, and after panting lightly and enjoying what remained of his orgasm, he rolled off the body and laid beside it as he would a lover.

He realized that the heart was still firmly within his fist, and he idly gave it a squeeze with a content, gore-encircled smile.


End file.
